Chapter 701: Raven and the Streaming Mirror
Little Barty Crouch stood in the shadows at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his wand pointed directly at the trembling少年 before him.
Ryan Smith staggered backward, voice trembling. “I… I heard this was incredibly dangerous… You can’t do this… I saved you!”
“Yes, you did,” Little Barty Crouch said, a cold smile curling his lips. “So you can trust me—I will keep my promise. I’ll turn you back.”
Ryan growled under his breath. “Trust you? What right do you have to demand my trust?”
Impatient, Little Barty Crouch narrowed his eyes, his voice dripping with cynicism. “You have two choices, Smith.”
“First, I’ll transform you. You’ll cooperate with my plan. Once the operation succeeds, not only will I restore you—but I’ll take you to meet the Dark Lord. You’ll receive a master’s reward.”
“Second, you keep provoking me. I’ll still transform you. Whether you cooperate or resist afterward, you’ll remain permanently transformed into a bird. You might be torn apart by hunters before tomorrow even comes.”
“So… what’s it going to be?”
Ryan’s face twisted with fear and fury, a storm of regret and resentment flashing across his features. His lips quivered. “You’re letting me choose… Are you really giving me a choice?”
“Answer,” Little Barty Crouch said, the tip of his wand glowing faintly. His eyes remained unblinking.
“I’ll cooperate! I’ll cooperate, okay?!” Ryan’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. “You promise—afterward, you’ll turn me back!”
“Of course,” Little Barty Crouch smirked.
With a sudden flick, he swung his wand. A bolt of light struck Ryan square in the chest.
The boy convulsed instantly. Bones cracked with a sickening crunch. Black feathers erupted across his skin, spreading like ink in water. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed into a raven.
“Go,” Little Barty Crouch said, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “Remember your mission.”
The raven obeyed, wings beating as it soared into the high altitude.
From within the Forbidden Forest, the raven’s cry echoed intermittently—blending seamlessly with the calls of other creatures, unnoticed, unremarkable.
Then, Little Barty Crouch watched as the castle’s main gate creaked open. Figures emerged from the morning mist, the audience arriving. Without hesitation, he turned and darted into the forest, his footsteps silent.
Before the Triwizard Cup—the incantation.
The giant three-headed dog paced restlessly, drool dripping from its jagged fangs.
Little Barty Crouch crept forward without a sound. He raised his wand, whispered a spell: “Soul Extraction.”
The dog froze. Its six eyes went blank, hollow.
A low growl rumbled from its throat. Then, it turned and vanished into the dense trees.
Moments later, Harry burst through the forest, breathing hard. He frowned—uneasy at the lack of obstacles.
Little Barty Crouch raised his wand again, pointing at the approaching figure. “Confuse the senses!”
Krum suddenly stumbled, his leg locking mid-step. Without warning, he veered sharply off course, heading down a different path.
The raven screeched.
Following the sound, Little Barty Crouch spotted two girls climbing a steep slope, working in tandem.
He flicked his wand once more. An invisible ripple of magic swept through the air. Their eyes glazed over for a moment. Then they exchanged a glance.
“I feel like this path isn’t right,” one said.
“Me too,” the other replied. “Let’s go around the walnut tree up ahead, then head north.”
“Sounds good!”
They adjusted their route, chatting easily—completely forgetting about the compass in their hands.
A faint smile curled Little Barty Crouch’s lips.
Throughout it all, the competitors remained unaware they were being manipulated. Every choice they made, every direction they took—felt entirely their own.
This was the true horror of the Imperius Curse—mastered and passed down by the Dark Lord himself. Even if the Ministry of Magic tested every possible way, they could never prove whether these actions were the result of a curse… or the contestants’ own thoughts.
Few wizards could achieve such perfection. Most, when casting the Imperius Curse, carried an instinctive mental barrier—a subtle awareness of dissonance.
Little Barty Crouch had once been no different.
But over the past year, he had been the Dark Lord’s only reliable confidant. To ensure his own resurrection, the Dark Lord had passed down advanced dark magic techniques—far beyond what any school professor could teach.
And Little Barty Crouch was no ordinary boy. He was brilliant—intelligent beyond measure. Worse still, the one teaching him wasn’t someone he resented, but the very figure he admired most.
After years of stagnation, his magical prowess surged. He now surpassed even his father, who held a high position in the Ministry.
And when he finally faced his own father—defeating the old Barty Crouch—seeing the man’s shock, regret, panic, and agony…
That moment of triumph brought him more satisfaction than he had ever known.
All of it—his strength, his power, his victory—was a gift from the Dark Lord.
…
When the Legilimency ended, Little Barty Crouch didn’t just remember the arrest, the escape, the mission’s completion—he relived the Dark Lord’s approval, the ecstasy of revenge, the sacred time spent learning magic at his master’s side, the overwhelming gratitude in his heart, and the vow he had made to die for him.
His head throbbed as if someone inside were hammering it with a sledge. Cold sweat poured down his face, pooling on the cold ground.
Yet his eyes burned with even greater frenzy—more intense, more fanatically loyal.
“Master… Master, did you see?” he gasped, trembling. “I’ve never betrayed you. I would die for you, willingly!”
“Yes,” whispered Infant Voldemort, leaning forward slightly. “I saw everything. I’m proud… You’ve never failed me.”
Little Barty Crouch shuddered violently, as if every hardship had finally been repaid. Tears welled in his eyes, choking him.
“Rise, my loyal friend,” Voldemort hissed. “When I return, you shall sit at my right hand.”
“Yes… yes…” Little Barty Crouch stammered, rising unsteadily from the ground, face smeared with tears and dirt, utterly flustered.
He raised his hand to wipe his eyes—then froze mid-motion.
Only then did he realize: he had rushed back to the Dark Lord… and forgotten to turn Ryan Smith back.
Hours had passed. The boy was now a mindless raven, lost in the Forbidden Forest. Even if Little Barty Crouch searched, he might never find him.
What if the Dark Lord suddenly remembered the loyal servant he had left behind?
What if Voldemort decided he’d been careless—retracted his praise, punished him for failing?
The thought sent a wave of icy dread through him.
With his sleeve shielding his face, he dared a quick, anxious glance at the infant Voldemort, seated upon his serpent.
The Dark Lord’s attention had already shifted to Harry and Wade. The serpent’s eyes fixed on the two children. The mouth twitched upward in a cruel smile.
“Now,” Voldemort murmured, “let me properly welcome my two little guests.”
The floating Streaming Mirror slid sideways.
Little Barty Crouch shifted slightly, stepping beside it, and brushed his hand across its edge.
The mirror remained blank—white, undisturbed.
But Little Barty Crouch knew: it was now temporarily disabled.
Hogwarts would soon resume broadcasting the tournament live. But as long as Voldemort couldn’t see the live image on the mirror, he wouldn’t recall the Forbidden Forest.
And if he didn’t remember the forest… he wouldn’t remember Ryan Smith—left behind, forgotten.
Once the Dark Lord was fully resurrected, he’d be consumed by greater matters. The small oversight would vanish from his mind—irrelevant, unimportant.
As Little Barty Crouch lowered his hand, a fleeting smile flashed across his face—so brief it seemed like an illusion.
And at the very moment he silenced the Streaming Mirror, Wade’s clothing badge flickered faintly. A blue light pulsed beneath the fabric—then faded back into stillness.
(End of Chapter)
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